


Velvet Mask

by Captain_Loki



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Music, Musician Derek, Schmoop, mentions of past kate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 08:33:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Captain_Loki/pseuds/Captain_Loki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's at the beginning of this relationship, the one that has been years in the making, that Stiles finds the violin. Derek thinks Stiles has a manilla folder stored somewhere of all the things he's learned about Derek Hale, treats him like a detective in an old film noir, like a case to be cracked, Stiles does love a good mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Velvet Mask

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hologramophone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hologramophone/gifts).



> based on this [prompt](http://captain-snark.tumblr.com/post/41733604986/velvet-mask-sterek-fic)

Derek Hale starts binging on Beacon Hills’ teen population, what Stiles assumes is about three minutes after he becomes Alpha. It takes him four years, two apartments and a house, however, to finally send for the rest of his belongings from the storage unit he and his sister had shared. Stiles doesn’t divulge this observation to Derek, not when this thing between them is still on warranty, everything new and fragile, barely out of its bubble wrap packaging.

Time had sandpapered over the rough edges of their relationship and things had finally seemed to settle. That is until one midsummer evening, with the sky burning pink around the edges, Stiles turns away from his Jeep and back towards Derek, waiting at his front door.

“Forget something?” He asks, as Stiles makes his way slowly back over.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods with a soft shrug. “You want to go out sometime?” He asks, surprising himself when his voice doesn’t choke or stutter or waiver, that his tone remains neutral and the pitch even. Derek looks taken aback, his shoulders going rigid where he stands with his hands tucked into the back pockets of his jeans. It makes his shirt stretch obscenely over his chest but Stiles tries not to notice.

“I—“ Derek says, eyes wide and brows impressively high on his forehead. He relaxes a little then and says, “Yeah, okay.” 

So they do, and they have and it’s been nearly a month of sporadic dates, like actual dates, that Stiles still can’t believe he gets to go on. Sometimes, it’s the ridiculous cheese of rom coms and the wet dream of Ted Mosby; Derek has let Stiles tumble down hills, made him walk home one memorable time in the rain when he’d been particularly obnoxious, but this Derek seems to be compensating because he holds the door open for Stiles and leads him with a press of his open palm to the small of Stiles’ back to the table he reserves at restaurants Stiles could only afford if he maybe started hooking.

Sometimes though, and more often, it’s awkward and fumbling and remembering suddenly at the worst times that this is _Derek Hale_ and he can see the ‘holy shit this is Stiles Stilinski’ in Derek’s face sometimes when he’s got his mouth around Derek’s cock or when Stiles is three fingers deep inside him.

But mostly it’s kind of awesome.

Stiles worries sometimes, but it’s a feeling he’s grown accustomed to, and it sits and lurks and waits ready to rear its ugly head of self-doubt and fear that one day Derek will realize this has all been a colossal mistake. Or that Stiles will show his hand too soon, always too soon. Stiles can’t _do_ casual, isn’t hardwired that way.

He had a one night stand once and made her bacon and eggs and fruit salad because he thought ‘what if she’s a vegan?’ and then she’d grabbed her shoes and eyed the set table and him with this look of pity and kissed him on the cheek and left.

Stiles isn’t good at keeping his emotions in check.

But he tries, with Derek, to let things simmer slow and hot and calm, doesn’t want to crash blundering through the trees and spook him. After Derek’s belongings finally arrive, Stiles invites himself over to help settle Derek officially into his apartment. Derek doesn’t protest when Stiles tells him, Stiles is still _Stiles_ of course and he kind of does what he wants but Derek never really seems to mind, and when he does, he’s not all that shy about telling Stiles otherwise.

There’s more stuff than Stiles would have expected, he notes, as he pushes his way in after knocking an obnoxious staccato against the door. Derek just steps back and lets him. There are end tables now adorning either side of Derek’s ultra-suede couch (because Stiles had wailed in frustration at the furniture store when Derek had suggested leather… “seriously Derek, can you check your stereotypes a bit? Leather is so uncomfortable and squeaky and cold and _ugh_ ”). Stiles steps over trash and crushed boxes, sticky rolls of discarded tape clinging to various surfaces and the styrofoam scraps of packing peanuts. He amuses himself later sticking them to Derek’s pant leg with the power of static, until Derek scowls at him and pushes him into a large open box full of them.

There’s a box tucked into the corner of the room, piled high with neatly folded clothes and shoes that Stiles notices with quiet observation are all women’s, and the box says ‘to donate’ in sharpie across the side. Stiles doesn’t go near it. He moves instead toward a half put away stack of teetering books. They’re all classics except for beaten up copies of Terry Pratchett and,

“Oh my _God_ , you’re a Potter head!” Stiles says in awe, staring at the whole set, and noticing for the first time the collection of D.V.Ds already put away in _alphabetical order by genre_.

Derek looks like he’s uncertain whether this is a good thing or not, Stiles tilts his head back to look upside down at him and his face splits into a wide smile. “That’s awesome,” he laughs and Derek’s mouth twitches in a grin. Derek shifts a few inches closer to him, their faces less than a foot away and Stiles thinks Derek’s going to maybe kiss him, looks like he wants to, the way Derek’s tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip, but then he’s turning away towards another heavily taped box and Stiles sits up right, disappointed.

He thinks about telling Derek it’d be okay if he did, if he wanted to. But he thinks maybe he’s just projecting and Derek doesn’t really want to at all and Stiles thinks the admission would be awkward, so he concentrates instead on cramming the small bookshelf full.

It’s late afternoon by the time most of the unpacking is finished and Stiles collapses against the couch with a huff, wiping at his damp brow and closing his eyes. “Beer. Cold. Please.” He says, not even bothering to open his eyes, he can see the look Derek is giving him, burning through his eyelids. The one that says _if your father finds out_ but Derek is pressing a cold bottle into his hand a minute later, anyway. Stiles grins up at him, but pushes the bottle back towards Derek’s still outstretched hand.

“Do the thing?” He asks and Derek huffs like he’s annoyed but the bottle isn’t open and he knows Derek could have done it easily in the kitchen. Derek raises the bottle and makes a show of lengthening his canines in a flash before he rips the bottle cap off with a sharp pierce and the pop of pressurized metal. Stiles laughs and Derek rolls his eyes but the smile he offers is open, and fond, and real as he shoves the beer back at Stiles’ grabbing hands.

“You ever try and open a package of scissors like that?” he asks before he tips the bottle back to take a swig. Derek gives him a speculative sort of look before he says, “Every year on Christmas I’d open all my toys like that, my grandmother, on my mom’s side, was human and she’d always get really offended about it.” Stiles tips his head back and laughs, he turns just slightly, the pale line of his neck stretched out, to look at Derek, who, Stiles notes, is watching him with interest. Derek’s throat bobs as he swallows heavily, just watching, like he’s steeling himself up for something. Then his fingers are threading lightly through Stiles’ hair and he’s saying, voice whisper rough, “it’s getting long again.”

Stiles doesn’t say anything, just lets his gaze drift over Derek’s face as he tips his head further back, nuzzles against Derek’s palm and tries not to sigh. Derek clears his throat a moment later and lets his hand fall away. “I’m gonna order pizza, you want?” Stiles tries not to sound too disappointed when he nods.

When Derek disappears into the kitchen Stiles sees it, or rather notices it for the first time, leaning against the wall beside the end table, in the corner of the room. Stiles shuffles down the couch until he can stretch out an arm and reach it, closing his fingers around the edge and pulling the case onto his lap. He thinks it’s a violin case, suspicions confirmed when he manages to pull the clasp and open it carefully. Stiles doesn’t know much about musical instruments, but this one looks expensive. Its strings are new and shiny where they catch in the light as Stiles pulls the piece from its case.

He only gives a passing thought to whether or not this is a gross invasion of privacy, but it _was_ just sitting there. He turns the violin in his hand and sees the blemish on its underside, smoothed over but still an unmistakable scorch mark across its base.  There’s a creak from somewhere to his left, and Stiles turns the instrument right side up once more, sees the triskele engraved into the front just above an ornately printed D.J.H.

“What’s the J stand for?” Stiles asks, glancing over at Derek, standing in the doorway. Derek doesn’t say anything for a beat.

“My middle name,” he teases.

“Har har,” Stiles grouses, placing the violin carefully back in its case.

“James,” Derek says, finally.

“Hmm,” Stiles sounds, “Derek James Hale. It’s too normal,” he decides. “I was hoping your middle name would be something more interesting. Like Nesbit or Ernest.”

“Okay, this coming from the kid whose name is so traumatizing he goes by _Stiles_ ,” Derek emphasizes, eyebrows raised.

“Touche,” Stiles admits with a nod. Silence descends between them again, questions rolling around Stiles’ head but he’s uncertain which are okay to voice.

“Do you still play?” Stiles asks, toying with the soft velvet interior of the sleek case.

“Not for a while,” Derek admits, quietly. Stiles nods in understanding and he closes the case with a soft snap and returns it to rest against the wall. When he moves back to settle into the couch again, Derek is watching him closely, like he’s waiting for something.

“If you wanted,” Stiles says, glancing away before letting his eyes catch Derek’s earnestly. “You’d have a willing audience,” he offers. “I don’t heckle and I tip really well,” he smiles. Derek returns it and sits down next to Stiles, but he doesn’t say anything, just slings an arm across Stiles’ shoulders.

 

They make it through two movies, a large meat lovers and a six pack of Blue Moon between them before Derek clears his throat and the whole line of his body stiffens with a tension that Stiles has felt thrumming beneath the surface the whole evening. Derek pulls slightly away from Stiles who laments the loss of contact and body heat. He doesn’t say anything though, just turns his eye towards Derek and waits.

“I could play for you,” he says, finishing a half conversation from hours earlier. Stiles straightens and fingers the seam on the outer edge of Derek’s worn jeans.

“You don’t have to,” he tells him. Derek nods, “but I want to.”

Stiles watches as Derek stands and busies himself with the instrument. His fingers stutter gently over the clasp and smooth across the surface of the violin the same way Stiles has seen across his own skin and he shivers at thought. Derek must sense it because he looks up and catches his eye. Stiles feels his face heat and he asks, to break the silence, “do you ever compose?”

Derek doesn’t answer right away, but his eyes get this far away look Stiles has seen before and he regrets asking. But Derek just pulls the violin from its case and nods, “once.” Stiles doesn’t ask, because he doesn’t have to, he knows what that means. He wants to hear it, but he knows better than to ask.

“I think I remember it,” Derek tells him, “I uh…I can try,” he offers. Stiles thinks about shaking his head and requesting something innocuous but he finds himself nodding instead. Derek doesn’t look upset, but his face is set with determination as he raises the violin. Stiles shifts on the couch and curls his legs up beneath him as he watches Derek tuck the violin beneath his chin. He holds the bow poised above, as his fingers settle with only a slight fumble. Stiles can see a brief hesitation before Derek breathes in deeply and plays the first note.

Stiles has always had a thing for Derek’s hands, broad palms and thick fingers and so much strength and power behind them, but always in total control over them, over the force he can level with them. Stiles always expects them to be worn and rough, calloused a bit like his own but they’re not, super human werewolf healing and everything, they’re smooth, skin perfect and unblemished, like the rest of him. He holds the violin and the bow delicately as he plays and Stiles is fascinated by the way they move with careful, patient precision. He isn’t good with words for these things, remembers music class and old vocab terms that mean nothing beneath the reality of Derek with a violin.

Stiles watches the way Derek’s brow furrows with concentration, the way his mouth is turned down in a frown and Stiles’ mouth twitches with open affection and Derek catches his gaze and the next note is a little harsh. Derek’s face reddens in a blush and Stiles tries not to smile, lets his eyes slip closed instead, and Derek doesn’t fumble again.

The song isn’t melancholy as much as it is…sad and beautiful; Stiles thinks, like Derek. There’s a frantic quality to it, and Stiles peaks beneath a half closed eye lid where Derek’s hands streak across the instrument and it reminds Stiles of the way Derek runs, the way he pushes himself when they’re training. It reminds him of the woods in fall and the taste of salty sweat slicked skin and the way Derek’s skin breaks beneath his teeth when they fuck.

And it makes Stiles think of Derek, young and broken and the way his mother’s hands had felt so fragile beneath his just before she died and the paleness of her skin and the softness of her smile. He feels the wetness on his cheek before he can register the desire to stop it, prevent it. He lets it streak there, drying hot against his cheek and he opens his eyes to see Derek watching him now and he lets them fall closed, smile pulling at the corners of his mouth.

When the music stops suddenly, Stiles opens his eyes, concerned, to find Derek has crossed the room with inhuman speed and is pressing in close, violin clenched in his hand. Stiles jumps in surprise and opens his mouth to speak but Derek has his lips pressed tight against his before he can make more than an aborted gasp, swallowed by the heat of Derek’s open mouth. It tastes like pepperoni and feels like a plea.

Stiles hands come up to grasp at Derek’s head, thumbs skating over the shell of his ears before Derek pulls away and pants heavily, pupils blown wide.

“Wha’ was that for?” Stiles drawls, out of breath and hard in his jeans, heart pounding in his chest. Derek shakes his head and sighs out, “I—“ before he stops.

“C’mon!” Stiles whines, “you have to tell me so I can keep doing it. Forever,” he complains, teasing. The implications of that statement hangs between them and Stiles is afraid again, like he’s spilled his cards and Derek can see them all, all the moves he was planning to make. Derek just presses forward again though, and kisses him, it’s soft and sweet and Stiles chases his lips when he pulls away again.

“For everything,” Derek tells him.

“Wow,” Stiles says, honest, he’s watching Derek and trying not to feel like the other shoe is about to drop. Derek must sense it in his gaze or the way his heart rate has picked up because he rushes out, “I don’t want you—“ but then he sighs. Stiles brows draw together in confusion.

“Getting serious mixed signals, dude,” Stiles offers with a cock of his head.

“I don’t want you to date other people,” Derek tells him.

“I’m not,” Stiles points out, confused.

“I know…well no I didn’t but I don’t want you to. I don’t want to date other people either. I want…” he huffs out a resigned sigh.

“Are you asking me to go steady, Derek Hale?” Stiles asks, and he pretends to swoon, mostly he pretends to swoon, because he’s pretty sure Derek Hale is asking him to be his boyfriend.

“I’d give you my letterman jacket and everything if I had one,” Derek says, smiling now, because Derek is always more comfortable when Stiles isn’t being serious.

“I could give you my lacrosse jacket,” Stiles offers, and he thinks about it for a second and says, “oh my God can I give you my lacrosse jacket?” Derek rolls his eyes but kisses him again, setting the violin down on the coffee table and pulling Stiles closer, until he’s gathering him up in strong and able hands, Stiles’ legs wrapping securely around his waist.

They tumble into Derek’s bed then, and it’s a calm and unhurried shedding of clothes until they’re both naked, Derek poised above him like the hard line of his bow, until they’re dragging their cocks against one another, hard presses of their hips as they kiss messy and lazy. The pace Derek sets when he slides into Stiles finally is agonizingly slow, not enough friction for either of them, like he wants it to last. He tilts Stiles slightly and presses back in, Stiles head dropping back on a long drawn out moan when the angle is perfect and Derek bites at the tendons in his neck softly as his hips stutter into Stiles and he comes moments after Stiles spills between them.

 

                                                                                                                           

Derek hadn't had a home since before the fire. There had been residences, some lived in longer than others but none that ever felt truly his, or theirs, or settled. He and Laura had been nomadic in the years after they'd lost their family, never feeling safe in one place for too long. New York had been the fresh start Laura had been looking for, the big city so different than the woods of Beacon Hills. But they had barely lived there for a year before Laura was drawn back to California and everything went to shit. Again.

First he'd squatted in the burned out wreck of his own property. Then there'd been the abandoned train car, which had served its purpose, even if it was never somewhere Derek particularly liked to be, how could it? When things had settled, after the Alpha pack Derek caved and started renting in a shit hole of an apartment, didn't even have a proper bedroom or a kitchen, but it wasn't underground and it felt safe, at least. The second place was cleaner and more spacious but Derek hadn't thought of it like a home, had referred to it as HQ in most conversations, like it was all business.

After the pack started to feel more like pack though, as he watched them rip open college acceptance letters and walk across that stage, diplomas in hand, Derek made a decision. He bought a house. It was an admission of sorts, a proclamation and a promise, that this time he was done running. He had a mortgage to pay and it felt like putting down roots, like a contract binding him to this place and these people.

But for the first six months it still felt empty and awkward, like he was a guest in his own space. The cupboards were bare and sad, there was only a tv and a couch in the spacious living room, he didn't even own a spatula which Stiles told him was the saddest thing he'd ever heard before he showed up one day with plastic pampered chef bags filled with cutlery and cooking utensils.

The house has three bedrooms and a nice kitchen with stainless steel appliances and a garbage disposal. Derek isn't sure why it’s the garbage disposal that fascinates him so much, he supposes it has something to do with spending a year without running water, but there it is. He even has an office with a heavy oak desk and a desktop pc and three different gaming systems on the big screen downstairs that aren't even his.

 

Derek doesn't think Stiles really understands what it means when he insists that he's helping Derek organize. Stiles is persistent and he looks at him like he expects an argument but Derek doesn't think he could muster up a lie with any sort of conviction to argue. He thinks maybe Stiles might get it, he's smart like that, doesn't need an explanation because he  has too much empathy to know what to do with, even it overwhelms him sometimes and he compensates by being a dick. Derek gets that.

But even the human part of him stares at Stiles incredulously when he waves a finger in his face and tells him what time Derek should expect him the next day, when the boxes of his old life have finally arrived. There is no sense of grudging obligation in it, like Stiles thinks this is a thing he needs to do because of everything that's begun between them. Derek realizes with a warm jolt that he _wants_ to.

Stiles _wants_ to sift through Derek's things and look at them from every angle and decide what to do with them, he always has, Derek supposes he shouldn't be surprised that he would on a more literal level. He was there when Derek bought the house in the first place, was the reason he bought the house, if he's being honest. Because Derek is bad with people and Stiles had sighed with pity when he'd admitted he took that first apartment because he didn't know how to say 'no'. It wasn't like he was planning on living there for long, but Derek isn't exactly good at this.

Stiles is though, like a walking wikipedia of useless information, and Derek suspected Stiles had done _research_ when they meet with the realtor. When Derek tells him he likes the place Stiles had nodded and suggested they look for a privately hired inspector and Derek had nodded like 'yeah, good' and Stiles had smiled and said he knew a guy. It was before they'd even started dating, but Derek thinks in hindsight it had been a pretty long time coming. He'd wanted to kiss the corner of Stiles' smile then.

 

Stiles had even argued the homeowner down to a lower closing cost.

Derek doesn't know where the dishes are in his own kitchen, and he watches Stiles bound up from the couch halfway through _The Empire Strikes Back_ pulling open the cabinet by the oven and grabbing a ceramic mug, brewing himself a cup of decaf from the keurig he'd bought (himself) as a housewarming gift for Derek. He pulls open a drawer on the island and grabs a spoon, stirring in a copious amount of cream before tossing the utensil with a clank against the sink as he hurries back to the couch.

Derek thinks a year ago he'd be pissed at Stiles on principle that he doesn't know where the glasses are, or the pots, and he'll spend all the next morning trying to find the sugar bowl for his coffee. Now though? He slings an arm around Stiles who squawks as his coffee sloshes dangerously. Now he can't muster up the energy to care where the bowls ended up.

It's the wolf part of Derek that feels the weight of this most heavily. Stiles' scent is everywhere; it’s in the books on the shelf on the other side of the room, and clinging to the drapes across the bay window and the fabric of the couch he picked out, it's settled between the covers of Derek's bed and permeates the computer chair in his office, and intermingling in the bathroom with the scent of the hand soap he likes. It makes him want to deadbolt the door until he promises never to leave.

 

Later when he walks back into the living room and sees Stiles' finger running delicately over the scorch on his violin he feels a sick sense of dread. He knows this part. He hasn't exactly had a lot of relationships, romantic, platonic or otherwise. But the handful of times he's been careless with this piece of his past it always ends the same. The nagging pressure to perform, the enthusiastic drawl and pleas that they just 'have' to hear him play something, even if it’s bad ' _for me_ ', and he bites back the sardonic 'I can't even play for _me_ what makes you think I'd do it for you' and he's only ever said it out loud once, but he didn't like the guy anyway and he'd been a pretty awful lay.

But Stiles just closes the case carefully, and offers a quiet smile and an open invitation, and Derek hears the 'if you're ready' in it, because Stiles gets its, of course he does. And Derek wants to, he wants to shuck off the armor this once and pick the violin up and play it, to share that with Stiles. But he thinks of the triskele, the slightly raised edges of it and thinks of the magic that was laced in it. It wasn't particularly strong, but the violin had been a gift for his fourteenth birthday, and it was expensive, and his mother had been afraid he'd nick or scratch it, that he would, in a fit of clumsy teenage carelessness would damage it.

The taste of the memory burns sharp on his tongue when he sees the scorch mark, when he remembers picking it up out of the rubble. So lulled into complacency they were they'd bared their vulnerabilities and left this, as a talisman, a reminder of what Derek had done. Stiles puts the violin away and they eat pizza and watch movies that Derek doesn't pay attention to, but Stiles is a warm weight against his side and he smells happy and content.

 

He resolves himself for it when the credits are rolling and Stiles looked bright and fond. It's muscle memory, Derek thinks, as he raises the violin to his chin, and some of the notes are too harsh but Stiles doesn't seem to notice. He's watching Derek with such open adoration that it makes him fumble with the bow and flush hot and red. Stiles closes his eyes after, like he knows, and it sends a flicker of irritation through him a bit, but he ignores it.

When he sees the corners of Stiles lips turn up in a smile he thinks it should make him feel something that isn't warm, it should be cold, to smile at the sound of Derek's pain and anger. But when Stiles lets his eyes drift open they're glassy and wet and there's a tear track on his cheek that catches in the light when his head moves.

Derek watches Stiles' face and wonders what he's thinking of, if it's Derek and the fire and Laura naked and alone or if he thinks of his own loss, of his mother and the daises he places on her grave for her birthday every year. He wants to lick away the next tear that falls, he wants to bury his face in the crook of Stiles' neck and breathe.

He's across the room before he registers moving, and Stiles' eyes open with sharp surprise as he kisses him. Derek hates the term boyfriend, he hates lovers even worse and partner sounds stupid. He thinks of the word 'mate' and laughs derisively to himself. But whatever he wants to call it, whatever Stiles wants to call them and he thinks Stiles will throw out something ridiculous just to set him at ease; (he does three days later when he introduces Derek as his lycanthropic life partner to his father).

When they have sex, Derek thinks it’s the closest he’s ever come to making love.

 

                                                                                                                            

The next morning Stiles makes breakfast.

"I don't know where anything is," Derek reasons, sitting sleepily at the island on the leather barstool Stiles bought.

"Excuses, excuses," Stiles says, but he makes them both scrambled eggs and bacon and brews a fresh pot of coffee. Derek looks through three cabinets before he huffs in frustration.

"What'd you do with the goddamn sugar bowl?" He asks grumpily, but it's mostly for show, for the way Stiles rolls his eyes and makes a dramatic show of opening the cabinet beside the fridge.

"It's in here, _dear_ ," Stiles says, pushing it into Derek's hands. Derek kisses him hard on the lips before Stiles moves away. He backs him up into the counter and toys at the waistband of his sleep pants, fingers moving lower and lower until Stiles lets out a frustrated groan, "I'm gonna burn the bacon."

"I'd rather have sausage," Derek says.

"Oh my _God_!" Stiles shouts, pushing at his chest and Derek laughs. "That was a terrible _terrible_ pun."

"Still true thought," he shrugs, spooning sugar into his mug. Stiles smiles and tends to the breakfast.

 

After they've finished eating Derek puts his dishes in the sink and paces nervously. He's thought about this all night. Stiles is watching him curiously, concern seeping into his scent. Derek goes to the refrigerator and pulls down an envelope, it's beaten up, crumpled and smoothed and repeated nervously.

He pushes it towards Stiles. "It's for you," he adds unnecessarily. Stiles looks at it with trepidation before he pulls it towards him and lifts the flap, staring down inside incredulously.

"It's a key..."

"It's to the house," Derek tells him.

"This house?" Stiles asks, voice cracking. Derek stares at him.

"Is it...for like emergencies?" He asks, uncertainly, pulling it out and staring at it in his open palm. Derek shakes his head, wondering if this was a bad idea, if it's maybe too soon. "Are you giving them to everyone?" Stiles asks.

"Probably to Boyd," he says honestly, because he thinks it makes sense. Stiles looks up at him. "For emergencies." He adds. Stiles smiles in that way that looks like a battle, like Stiles is trying really hard to act like a twenty year old and man and not a five year old on Christmas day. He fails miserably and his face twitches before he grins hard and pulls him across the counter to kiss him. Derek is fighting his own losing battle, and the kiss they share is sloppy and full of teeth.

 

__

_EPILOGUE_

Stiles stands on Derek's porch, pacing back and forth several times before stopping, key clutched tight in the hand he raises towards the lock. He drops his arms by his side and paces some more.

Inside Derek and Erica sit on the couch and listen to the erratic flutter of his heartbeat, the quiet pep talk he gives himself as his feet wear down the wood beneath his sneakers. "Okay Stilinski, this is fine. This is what this has all been for. He's not going to eat you. You've moved on past that stage in your relationship. And if he's naked well that's just as well right?"

Erica turns to look at Derek, whose eyeing the front door with pity.

"Is this the first time he's letting himself in?" Erica asks quietly. Derek sighs and shakes his head.

"He's done this twice before, but he's chickened out both times and left, circled the neighborhood and called." Erica cackles, clamping a hand to her mouth.

"Oh, Stiles," she sighs. Derek nods, fondly. When the sound of the key in the lock clanks loudly both Erica and Derek stand.

"I'll let myself out the back," Erica decides and Derek nods.

"I'm gonna go up to the office," Derek says, "he embarrasses easily. Then the foreplay consists of my reassuring him he isn't a nuisance."

"Must suck to lie all the time," Erica teases. Derek shoves her playfully and she ducks towards the door to the back deck as Derek climbs the stairs to his office.

"Honey?" Stiles voice sounds from below, "I'm home?" Derek laughs at the stutter of his heartbeat, and the way Stiles' voice cracks, but he likes the way it sounds.

 

**Author's Note:**

> While writing this I was listening to a lot of violin music (omg right?) but this is the [one](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=b2587sK1Wco) I had on repeat while writing the part with Derek actually playing
> 
> If I've forgotten any obvious tags let me know, I kind of suck at the tagging thing.


End file.
